Something Real to Hold Onto
by LZlola
Summary: He feels like he's breathed his name countless times before. Tyrelliot one-shot. I think you can stick this somewhere in episode 9.


**Rating: T, for some very minor sexual content and suggestive themes**

 **A/N: So uhh…I'm breaking out of my WWE writing habit and doing something for Mr. Robot. Because I binge-watched the season and Tyrelliot was just too damn irresistible. Late to the party, I know. I don't believe I'll be doing much more in this fandom, but who knows?**

 **Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

* * *

He doesn't wake up with a start this time. It's more like when he's in a drug-induced haze and the fog and the high suddenly dissipates. But it doesn't take him long to realize that this isn't one of his usual morphine highs. He must've lost some time again.

That would also probably explain the man in front of him.

"Tyrell."

The name falls off his lips, almost soundlessly, as if he's too preoccupied with his own thoughts and his own surprise to register the situation at hand.

He's in the passenger seat of Tyrell's car. The cushy, leather seats and sleek lines of the spotless dash can only lead to that conclusion.

He should be asking why Tyrell's here. Why he's looking at him so intently with a gaze so startlingly greedy yet so full of deference. Why his hands are slowly creeping up his shoulders to the base of his neck. Why his body is inching towards him in a way that makes him inexplicably uneasy and expectant at the same time.

Then maybe he'll ask what the hell _he's_ doing here.

But all his mind keeps coming back to is how this feels so familiar. Like he's sat next to Tyrell in his car before, with his heart pounding out of his ribcage and his uneasiness being trapped in a locked car as the gaze of a predator follows him.

He feels like this isn't the first time he's been this close to Tyrell before. Like he's breathed his name countless times before.

And then suddenly, it clicks.

The time lost, the way Tyrell is looking at him, Mr. Robot…

Is that why this feels so familiar? Has he been here before with him? Talking to him, _touching_ him? Does he know about fsociety? The honeypot? Whiterose? The 50-some hour deadline? The entire plan?

Fuck.

He hates people knowing more than him. He hates not knowing things.

Maybe it's the wide eyes and the nervous jitters that give him away because Tyrell withdraws his hands and now he's giving him this weird look. Is that…a look of curiosity? Or is it one of concern? What do people look like when they're concerned?

Does Tyrell know this Elliot? Does he know the difference?

"I told you that Gideon is no longer a problem," Tyrell interrupts his thoughts. It doesn't sound like anger or exasperation. More like a reiteration.

Maybe Tyrell is as clueless as he is when it comes to Mr. Robot. _Himself_ , he quickly corrects.

He feels like he shouldn't be here. Like he's intruding on a conversation not meant for him to hear. Tyrell's talking to Mr. Robot, not him.

But then he remembers that _of course_ he's supposed to hear this; _he_ is Mr. Robot.

He's always forgetting.

"Okay." It's the first thing he's really said to Tyrell in all this time. He wonders if he sounds different to Tyrell. He wonders why he chose _this moment,_ in the middle of something important obviously _,_ to suddenly become himself again. Or switch to this version of himself. Whatever. He's never been good at language and jargon; he's not going to start now.

Tyrell raises an eyebrow at him as he leans forward to close the gap between them. "Is that why you keep questioning me?"

He instinctively pulls back until he feels the car door handle digging into his lower back. He's trapped. He needs an exit strategy.

Tyrell just laughs at the action, and before he can understand what's happening, Tyrell's fingers are at his chest, grasping at his hoodie's zipper and slowly pulling it downwards.

He freezes when he realizes it, when his lungs starts swelling from the anxiety that threatens to overtly spill out. "Wh-what do you want?"

Tyrell just smirks.

 _Isn't it obvious?_

But no, not really. It's never obvious with a man like Tyrell Wellick. He knows Tyrell will do whatever it takes to keep his status and climb up the corporate ladder. He doesn't even need to hack Tyrell to know that; he can see it in his eyes right at this very moment.

He likes to think that he's always two steps ahead of everyone, but the truth is, he can't predict everything. Most humans react in uniform, predictable ways in social situations. But Tyrell told him he wasn't human, and even if Tyrell was trying to be funny, he's still not like most humans.

So it shouldn't faze him when Tyrell slips a hand between his hoodie and the cotton of his t-shirt. He expects it almost – these games that he plays. They're always just games.

Right?

But there has never been great communication between his mind and body, and the contact makes him jump out of his skin even if he's expecting it.

"Relax," Tyrell says with a smile.

He's not sure if it's genuine, but if it is, it's still not very relaxing.

"I want nothing from you," Tyrell goes on.

Tyrell's eyes give away nothing, but he knows it's a blatant lie. He wants something.

Everyone always does.

He feels Tyrell's hands on his chest, but once he realizes what Tyrell's actually doing, Tyrell's hands are already pushing his hoodie off his shoulders and _he's_ helping Tyrell along by lifting his arms up.

Why did he do that? He feels naked now.

Exposed.

But it doesn't take a genius to realize what's happening when Tyrell's hands are slowly sidling up his bare skin. They're cold against his stomach and when Tyrell's surprisingly soft fingers start digging into the flesh of his warm skin, he thinks he remembers this feeling.

He thinks he remembers liking it.

He's so focused on Tyrell's hands on his skin that he doesn't notice Tyrell's face inches away from him until he feels Tyrell's hair fall into his line of vision.

"Do you want something from me?"

No.

"What?" he finds himself asking in a daze instead.

Tyrell brings his fingers to his chin and tilts it up so they're eye level. Tyrell never breaks his gaze and barely, just barely, brushes his lips against his own before pulling back.

He feels like it's not enough.

"Do you want something from me?" he murmurs again, as if he's asking for permission.

Maybe.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore.

Something catches in the back of his throat that prevents him from saying anything as those bright, blue eyes stare back at him. Those eyes are the only thing that seems to keep his attention.

His inability to speak must mean something because Tyrell brings his hand up to his cheek and kisses him again.

It's deeper this time, with pressure and insistence and purpose.

He likes the feeling.

It hits him again unexpectedly - that awareness, that familiarity. He feels like he's tasted the spicy aftershave on the corner of his lips before. In the same vein that he expects the expensive European soap on the nape of his neck to taste like sandalwood.

Expectation?

Fuck. This is more than he can handle. Everything is just so crazy and messed up right now.

But before he can process anything further, Tyrell's hands are at his shirt's hem, trying to pull it up and he's not doing anything to stop it.

He's frozen in place now. As if he's just an observer to his own life.

Is he even here right now?

The growing tightness in his chest and pants and the sticky sweat on his palms and between his legs say yes.

He has to be here. It's all too real. It _has_ to be.

But how can he forget something like this? Because he's sure _something_ has happened before.

This is crazy. He's crazy.

A noise that sort of resembles halfway between a sigh and a moan escapes Tyrell's lips, and he realizes that Tyrell has pulled away to catch his breath.

He's out of breath, too.

He opens his mouth again to speak, but still finds nothing coming out of it. Instead, he looks out the windows to see that night has fallen, that the bright lights of the Coney Island pier have lit up the sky.

Tyrell looks over his shoulder to see it too.

He hears the music of the carousel and children laughing in the in the background until suddenly, Tyrell turns to grab the back of his neck and pull him close again and it all stops. And all he can hear now is the sound of blood pulsing through his veins and the sound of their unsteady breathing falling into unison.

Tyrell presses his forehead against his, brings his hands to his jawline and smiles.

He thinks it's genuine this time.

"Bonsoir, Elliot," Tyrell whispers, his breath ghosting past his lips as he wraps his arms around his waist.

The way Tyrell says it…so vulnerable, so reverent almost. Is it always like this with him?

Has it always sounded so beautiful?

He closes his eyes.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, he's fully-clothed and sitting on his couch, alone in his apartment.

Did something happen? How did he get here? Where was Tyrell? Was any of it real?

Does he want it to be?

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated!**


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